Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV21.ZIP/RUBY21-6

Text File | 1993-05-23 | 15KB | 277 lines

Copyright 1992(c)

                            SPEEDING
                         By John Bedard

     I am the Immigration officer at this Canadian border
inspection station tonight, and am happy to have made it here in
one piece. We are in February, the winter is not yet over, and
getting here was more work than my customs inspector partner and
I will accomplish on this midnight to eight shift.
     Nobody sleeps on our watch. God forbids. But what if while
sitting in the back room with your lunch bucket open in front
of you; what if your head slipping down, you drop into the land
of the nod for a few minutes? It is just something that you
cannot prevent now is it not? So I am holding the fort while my
mate is in the lunch room. If per chance our supervisor decided
to show up or I needed help, the signal is for me to throw that
heavy glass ashtray against the wall. Nobody will get curb
service tonight. If they want action they will have to come
first inside to talk. Then, if need be, we will go out and
search their vehicle.
     So here I am, feet on the desk, facing south, working on a
pocket book. A good story but somewhat sluggish; the kind that
calls for a walk around the room every fifteen minutes or risk
falling asleep. It would help if someone would pre-read these
novels and rate them with stars, I say. One would then know what
to expect when picking one up. For best results the job would, of
course, have to be done by a book lover rather than by a book
seller. Doing my own would probably not be such a hot idea
either, as trying to read something that one has already perused
would take some of the fun away. Do you think I could interest
my wife in this? On the other hand knowing my wife, only one
kind of literature would get good ratings with her: Romance
novels. I am prejudiced yes, to each his own I say, but romance
books leave me cold. They would leave me warm if the romancing
was hotter. Hey! What do you think of that? Good say, is it not?
     Maybe pre-screening books would be a good job for me when I
retire? Let's keep that in mind.
     We, at Cantic, this Canadian border station, are two miles
away from our U.S. opposite: The Rouse's Point, N.Y, customs
house. The visibility is very limited tonight but I see something
coming our way. It is a slow moving, oddly shaped shadow. Hard to
say from here, but it looks like a pedestrian carrying a bag on
his back. We will see. What a night to be on the road I think,
and  on foot at that. At least we will have someone to talk to.
     Half an hour later, I am still on that novel and my man is
getting closer. From here he looks like one of those local
itinerant farm workers that pop up every so often. You know, the
type that was born before the line between Canada and the U.S.
was set, and who doesn't care if he is in one country or the
other, as long as you leave him alone. Man it is cold out there.
I will draw him a cup of coffee; bet he can use it.
     Coming back up front, I look out the window but can't see
anyone. Now where could he have gone that quickly I ask myself?
So I step out and there he is twenty-five feet or so past the
door, footing it north? "You come back here mister" I shout.
"Where in the name of hell do you think you are going? You are
now entering Canada. Can't you read the sign?"
     "What do you mean read the sign? I was not speeding I
swear! Besides I didn't want to disturb you. It is cold out
here."
     "I know it is cold out there damn it! and had I known last
night that everybody was going to act like you I would have
stayed home with the wife no? Get your butt back here. I got a
cup of coffee for you."
     "Mighty white of you officer, thank you."
     "Now tell me all about it. What is your citizenship sir?"
     "What do you mean cizenship?"
     "Where were you born?"
     "Oh that! In Stratton, Maine, I think."
     "What do you mean you think? What kind of an answer is
that? You got to do better. Try again."
     "Stratton I was told. You have to understand; I was then
a very young you know."
     "That makes you a citizen of the United States, does it
not?"
     "Well, I don't know about that."
     "Ah, sweet Jesus," I say to myself, "not one of them
again." "So you were born in Maine, then what?"
     "Then what what? Oh. Well, I worked for Old Man Barnes, down
the road here, for six months, then Bessie, (that's his wife),
went  to Albany to see her sister and didn't come back. That's
when old Man Barnes started hitting the cider pretty hard, he
did.
     "Now I don't blame Bessie, (that's his wife), for not coming
back, mind you, because living with Old Man Barnes is not always
easy for Bessie, that's his wife. When Old Man Barnes decides to
hit the cider, It is something to see, I tell you. One cannot say
that happenings are better, either, for Old Man Barnes, when
Bessie, (that's his wife), gets going.
     "She has this bad habit of listening to them Texas preachers
on the radio, the kind of tub-thumpers that raise all kinds of
hell about damnation and bad spirits at all hours. She also likes
to order pills by the bushel that these ministers are pitching
for diseases she does not have or knows nothing about. 'Just in
case' she calls it. As you can imagine, this 'just in case
business gets Old Man Barnes pissed off no way, and I am not
even going to try to tell you what it does for his blood
pressure. The worst part is that once Bessie, (that's his wife),
gets busy doing these things, her cooking goes to pot. No salt in
the soup, no salt in the stew, and one cannot even find a salt
shaker in the house. The more trips Old Man Barnes makes to the
village to buy  salt, the more salt Bessie, (that's his wife),
throws out the door behind our backs. Things got so bad after a
while that I had to go to the barn and hammer me a piece from
that block of rock salt that Old Man Barnes has there for his
cows. I have some right here, care to sample?
     As I was telling you, as Bessie, (that's his wife), got more
and more  religion, she had less and less time for the cooking
and the washing. Old Man Barnes was just fed up with this buying
salt twice a week business, I tell you sir. We were getting
nowhere fast, and were even unable to figure out what in hell was
going on, that is until last month. At three o'clock one morning,
hearing some strange singing and weird noises outdoor, I came
down the stairs and looked out the window. I spotted Bessie
spraying something around the exterior of the house. In the
morning, once I had told Old Man Barnes about it, he faced her
with the happenings. She then declared that the bad spirits had
taken over and that she was chasing them with blessed salts.
     "What blessed salts we say?" "The blessed salts that I got
the priest to bless." "Bull!" says Old Man Barnes, "Father Murphy
would never go for this." "Oh yes he did!" says Bessie. "He will,
if you get him to bless a medal that you have in one hand, while
you are holding a bag of salt in the other." she says. "And what
are them tin cans, full of something or other, doing under the
legs of the beds in this house, I want to know?" says Old Man
Barnes. "Them are full of blessed salt too" she says. "They are
there to keep the bad spirits from entering our bodies at night."
At that Old Man Barnes got really pissed I tell you, and declared
that maybe the bad spirits were inside of her already, and that
it would perhaps be better for all concerned if she moved out for
a while, so she did."
     "Hold it right there for a minute will you. You told me ten
times about Bessie, the that's his wife woman, yet I don't even
know your name. I want you to stop mentioning that Bessie is or
was the wife of Old Man Barnes, because I think I know it. Now,
what is your name sir?"
     "Me? Oh my name is Andre Pearson. I thought you knew. My
mother was French; that you can tell by the Andre part. My
father, well, all I know about him is that he was lost in the
war. I am sure of that because on each 11th of November at three
p.m. rain or shine, or some years it is snow or shine, we stop
whatever we are doing, take off our coverings, and bow our heads
for a minute. Did I tell you about Old Man Barnes being a mean
mother when he took to cider? I did! Good. Now I want you to
know that I am the type of person that does not mind not getting
my thirty a month when things get tough, but I want my share of
the juice when there is some to be had. On that I insist. Yes,
we did run low a week ago, and as Old Man Barnes on top of that,
cannot cook worth a damn, I decided to move on."
     "Let's get down to business here shall we?  What can you
tell me on your citizenship?"
     "Seasonship? Well, I had a long discussion on that with an
officer in Alburg last year. I explained everything to him and
he promised me, actually he swore, that he would have
Washington's answer in his hand the next time I went by his
place. I hope they have now made up their mind because I am
getting tired of this business. My wish is to be like everybody
else. I want to be able to answer the next time someone says:
"What is your seasonship?." "Yes sir; I am one them, I am." I
want it to be like it used to be in the army; that is snap to it
and salute when hearing that military music. Can you help me
sir? Do you think you could fix me up? I simply wish to be
somebody. Please officer do this for me will you because I am
getting tired of this waiting business. I feel like this man, I
saw in a movie one time, that did not have a country. I am also
getting powerfully worn out with the saluting of all them
banners, never knowing which is mine and never wanting to take
the chance of not doing the correct thing. You show me the flag
of Russia and I probably will salute it too. That is how screwed
up I am with this business. Please; I need your help officer.
Please..."
     "Let me get you a refill, then we talk about it."
     "Your coffee has a certain kickaboo officer. I can tell you
are a man that knows what he is doing. There is only one thing
that would improve it I say. I got a bottle of caribou here in
my bag, will you share a drop with me?"
     "Thank you but I can't drink on the job. You can have a
finger if you like. Now back to that citizenship bit... Where
were you born?"
     "In or around Stratton, I think. I know for sure that the
doctor came from Ste Anne and that I was baptized in Ste Anne.
That is in Quebec you know."
     "What about school?"
     "In Ste Anne too. That I know for sure."
     "Work, social security, unemployment benefits?"
     "Farm work and bush work, here and there, since I was
fourteen. The potatoes in Maine, the lumber camps in Quebec,
Vermont and Upper New York State. I have a social security
number and collect unemployment money in Quebec when I have to."
     "What about the army? Did the draft get you? and voting?"
     "You bet they did; shipped me to Alaska too. Cold mother up
there I tell you, but it could have been worse. I vote in Quebec
when I am there. Why all this now? The officer in Alburg told
me that he would send everything to Washington and let me know
when the results came back. They should have decided by now.
Check with them will you."
     "I cannot check with them because I work for the Canadian,
not the US government. What are you planning to do now?"
     "Well, I was thinking about going to stay with Monsieur
Latour, down the road here for a while. Spring will be here
shortly, so he will need help setting up his eel traps in the
Richelieu River. We get along pretty good and the old boy always
has a good stock of cider in his cellar too, something not to
sneeze at. You should taste some of that; but why don't you fix
me up with some of that citisship, that everybody else in the
world has but me? Yes I know; I was born here, baptised there,
went to school here, worked there, registered for the draft here
but went into the army there, hell, I don't know more than that
officer. I don't have the money to get papers and it is always
trouble, trouble, trouble...  What should I do next? The hell
with Alburg and Washington I say. I bet you can do something for
me right here and now. Please Officer; please..."
     "I am with you. It is nothing but a mess but I think I got
a deal for you. You tell me what kind of citizenship you want
and I will swear you in right now. OK with you? Go to the
bathroom to wash your hands and comb your hair first because
once started, we don't want any interruption now do we?"
     "Yes sir! I mean no sir! I am on my way sir! Will be right
back."
     "Are you ready?"
     "Yes siree, I am."
     "You now stand up, raise your right hand and repeat after
me: I, Andre Pearson, age 58, after much deliberation, in
possession of all my faculties and not under duress, do make the
following declarations in the presence of Officer Gauvin, a
sworn officer of the Canadian Immigration Service, and declare
of my own free will the following: To the best of my knowledge I
am and do consider myself to be a citizen of the Commonwealth of
Canada, and do hereby by the present, state that I accept all
the obligations expected of a citizen of Canada. I also wish to
abandon any claim I may have had in the past, or could have in
the future, to the citizenship of any other country, so help me
God."
     "So help me God! Thanks a lot officer! Would you say that
this calls for a drink now?"
     "Right you are, but before you go, I have to remind you of
something: You must always keep secret the ceremony we just had
here, because if you don't, the American authorities, hearing of
your becoming a citizen of Canada, may just get peeved at you,
bar you from travelling and working back and forth and keep you
out of their country. You understand that? No problem between
you and Canada; you can always mention my name you know, but
when going into the U.S., just forget what happened here today.
You got that straight? Good-bye and good luck now."
     "Whoopee! I am somebody at last, thanks to you... Thank
you, thank you, thank you."
                              END